An Absinthe Toast to Our Last Night in Barcelona

I wanted to get back to Barcelona at a reasonable hour for our last night.  With our trusty maps, Chris's navigational skills and the superb Catalonian highways, I drove like a bat out of hell.

We asked a guy who sold Dan, Thom and me hats in Barri Gothic where he would go to find authentic tapas. He recommended Allium.

Our lovely waitresses encouraged us to stay for dinner in a back room that we had all to our selves.

Plenty of wine, great food, great company, great service, a lovely setting and the bittersweet knowledge that Thom and I would be catching a flight back to New York the next morning made for our most convivial dinner yet.

But the evening had barely begun.  We found our way to the oldest bar in Barcelona.   Absinthe not age is the draw.  "If louche had a location, the Marsella would be it," said the New York Times.  Judge for yourselves.  For my money, it lacked only a thick haze of cigarette smoke.

I swear Dali winked at us on the way back to the Axel Hotel, quite possibly the gayest place I have ever lain down my head to sleep.